Rubber Bands
by Giggles96
Summary: "I wanted to hurt until I knew how to feel." One-shot.


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**Rubber Bands**

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**Summary: **"I want to hurt until I know how to feel."

**A/N: **Okay, guys, this one's serious. It will more than likely just be a one-shot, but I may feel tempted to write a follow-up. Please, let me know if I should.

Also, I haven't written in first person for a _very_ long time and I know that it's not generally well-received in fan fiction, but this… it _needed_ that intimacy. I couldn't have written it any other way.

**Disclaimer: **_none of these characters belong to me. __I apologise in advance for any foul language._

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-x-X-x-

Trigger warning for self-harm, suicide attempt and depression.

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Wilting from my wrists are three rubber bands, limp from inexorable use.

Yellow, red and blue.

The blue, I think, is probably my favourite - should favouritism be defined by the actions of our subconscious. Whilst my mind is preoccupied with greater things, my fingers will slink underneath and hook onto the shrivelling, faded elastic, tugging playfully at first, before gradually extending further and further, each biting release heightening in intensity, fresh strikes and blistering pain, reverberating harshly against flesh and bone, as I pull back and-

_Snap_.

I exhale.

Then glance around quickly, alarm tightening my breaths, before my shoulder's sag and I flop back as I note the deafening silence that comes with lonesomeness. The brusque sound is pretty much common place by now, but that doesn't stop me from feeling any less guilty.

I quickly roll down my sleeve and clear my throat, plunging back into the puddles of paperwork around me, armed with only my trusty highlighter and uncompromising _need_ to contribute _something_ of value, however small or insignificant.

But it's far from easy.

Reams of documents from months prior bond and amalgamate in my mind and I squint with the momentous effort it takes to cling to the knowledge that they are not one and the same. This is one of those times that my substantial memory really screws me over. Sure, they tell me that it's limitless, and yeah, that's great and all, but lately it's been getting pretty cramped up there. There's little movement, everything's stuck, and in the haste and panic to regain that previous fluency, there is only confusion where there used to be a spark.

After several minutes of rereading the same paragraph, I cradle my head as it dips in frustration and thrust my fingers through my hair, clutching vehemently at the silky strands until my hand starts to cramp.

Bitterly disappointed, I shove away from the desk and march over to the coffee maker, glaring fiercely at the alluring atrocity from which I've been banned with such single-minded hatred that I want to laugh at my own absurdity.

This isn't the coffee maker's fault. Nor is it the pen's that had busted under the force of my frustration, or even the pillow I thump and fluff every night because no matter the position I employ, I can never seem to _get comfortable_.

Nope, this one's on me.

But for all of my animosity towards my current situation, it's not as bad as it could be. As it once was.

My mood is improving, though my concentration still wanes, and I eat a little bit more each day, my appetite slowly returning.

Sometimes, however, I wake up and hopelessness seizes me. On the bad days, it's hard to imagine what 'okay' even looks like anymore, your judgement becomes so skewed, and what little progress you _have_ been making seems pale in comparison to _before_.

I'll never let go of 'before.'

It is the scale by which all things are measured, which is ridiculous, I guess, because 'before' is crafted in ideals.

Having spent so long _becoming_ this way, to be anything else is jarring - surreal - and not at all like _me_. I don't know how to be anything else, but I'm learning.

For so long, suicide was my comfort. It was as much a strength as it was my greatest weakness. My own romanticized idea of death and of dying quelled so many fears of the future and trivialized so many insecurities. The pain of my every day reality had become a burden, but the increasingly more enticing end, - _my_ end - was, in its own, twisted way, a God-send.

Suicide was my fantasy.

Now… sometimes I yearn for it because that yearning is a part of me, and I feel such _tremendous_ guilt because.. dear Lord, all of the people who _care_ about me, but more than that, I fear it, because of how dearly the thought still appeals to me.

I don't dare consider it, though. Thankfully.

Death is no longer an option.

I gaze around, now and then, and am swamped with anxiety, because this is _life_, and I programmed myself to be a quitter. Strangely enough, I forced myself to give up on everything that ever mattered to me, slowly, subtly, unwillingly over time.

I want to want to be here.

I want to want to live.

But I am wretchedly unprepared for this.

I still want the big things. In its enormity and intangibility, I want my future. Like most people, I wish to fall in love, thrive in my career - move up through the ranks and become a successful lawyer in my own right - start a family…

But it's everything in-between that I'm unsure of. I'm ashamed to dismiss the little things, but in the little things lies uncertainty - day to day struggles that when placed on top of each other seem wholly impossible.

Terrifying.

But real.

So deeply immersed in my thoughts, I don't hear the lock turn or the footsteps approach.

Not until a hand suddenly reaches out and clasps my own, stilling my movements, as a male voice intones, "Mike, we've talked about this. I agreed to let you wear those on the condition that you used them sparingly." Sighing, he draws my arm closer and pushes up my sleeve to inspect the damage. I wait, nervously fidgeting. "Yeah, no," the older man concludes. "This is unacceptable." He steps back, continuing almost conversationally, "You know, this kind of defeats the purpose of me confiscating all of those knifes-"

My gaze snaps up to his, breath catching in my throat.

"That's not fair!-" I'm quick to interject, feeling anger and betrayal all at once, "This does _not_ count-"

"Are you sure about that, Mike? Have you _seen_ those bruises?" The question's rhetorical. Of course, I've seen them. What does he take me f - I throw a fleeting glimpse downwards.

Holy crap.

"I'm not going to stand for this. You told me that this was a security thing, that wearing them offered some strange sort of comfort or something, and there was no way I was going to take that away from you, but mark my words, I will not - those _bruises_-" He falters, pausing to collect himself, before uttering much more quietly, "Those bruises will take weeks to fade. Your skin is _purple, _Mike. Just how often are you plucking at those bands, kid? Be honest with me - how much force are you putting behind it?"

"I swear, Harvey, I don't mean to be so rough! I zone out. It's instinctive."

"Oh, right," Harvey scoffs, rubbing his jaw tersely. "Instinctive. Of course. Because that makes it alright, does it? Is that supposed to reassure me?"

"Yes! Yes, as a matter of fact, _it is_!" I cry, balling my hands into fists and pacing. "Because it means that I don't _want_ to! Or if I do, I stop myself. Which is more than I can say about three or four damn weeks ago!"

"That's the problem, though, Mike. I'm not entirely convinced that you _don't_ want to. Not when I see something like this. Are you impervious to pain, then? Do you really neglect your own needs _that_ _much_ that you simply didn't notice?" Harvey laughs then. But it's dark and cynical and brittle, and my gut clenches at the sound. "Don't mistake me for an idiot, rookie. Those aren't all recent."

I blanch.

There's not much I can say to that. I have no defence.

"I-I'm _sorry_, okay?" My voice breaks and my knuckles have long ago turned white - the shame alone bears down hard on my gag reflex.

"No, kid, _I'm _sorry," Harvey turns and rams his fingers along his scalp, and it's a testament to the depth of my blunder that that permanently perfect, combed hair is not so perpetually immaculate anymore. He swallows hard. "I'm sorry that I can't keep fighting for you anymore when you won't fight for yourself."

My stomach drops.

"W-what are you saying?" I stumble, grasping at thin air. "Do you hate me now? Is that it? Do you resent me for harming myself?"

Harvey freezes, gaping at me for several seconds, before visibly composing himself.

"How can you even say that?" he murmurs and his voice is like ice. "I can't _hate_ you, Mike. Don't you get that? Because if I do, it'll hurt." He inhales deeply. "And it hurts too damn much already."

Before I can say anything else on the matter, my friend, mentor, _father-figure_, spins on his heels and gets the hell out of there.

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_* flashback *_

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"Mike! Open up! I swear to God, this is not some five-hundred dollar suit - if the seam splits because I have to kick down your Goddamn door, don't think I won't make you reimburse me!"

The floor's damp.

I like it here.

"Mike!" Louder and louder, the yells grow more concerned, - frantic, almost - and I wonder, absently, how a voice can be so familiar when you've never heard it sound this way before. "_Mike_! I'm not kidding! Don't underestimate my ass-kicking prowess! You _will_ regret it!"

Man, it's cold.

"Alright, I'm coming in!"

It doesn't even hurt anymore.

"Aw, Jesus. Looks like a frickin' bomb went off in here," someone mutters. But it's distant and I'm enjoying the quiet, so it's easy enough to block out. "Mike? You here?"

So quiet.

There's a dull ache in my head that's slowly getting on my nerves, though. I should probably go take some Tylenol, but… I'm so tired and comfortable, and yes, I'm a lazy idiot, sue me - I just… I really don't feel like getting up right now.

"What are you-" Now that definitely sounded like a strangled gasp, which is pretty damn strange, if you ask me. "Oh my fucking God. Oh, my God. Mike? Mike, can you hear me?!"

Trembling fingers grapple at my neck, jabbing uncomfortably. I groan. "Oh, thank God," the voice breathes. "Sweet, fucking merciful heavens."

I'm so warm. Or cold. I mean, my legs are cold, but the rest of me is warm, so does that make me warm or cold or both or nothing?

"Hello? I need an ambulance-"

An ambulance? Whatever the hell for?

Blearily, I open my eyes and even with the hazy vision, I can still distinguish the vague outline of a distressed face above me as a hand grasps my own.

"You're going to be okay, kid," he tells me, and since when was I anything but? "You're going to pull through this, and then I'm going to drag you along to the masquerade party in a few weeks time and we'll poke fun at Louis and his stupid costume and you'll probably want to dress up as James Bond or something, which is never going to work, I'll have the joyful task of pointing out, because once again, you've forgotten that attending masquerades usually entails having to don an actual mask, and no, you cannot carry a toy gun-"

I cough. Too wet.

Don't-don't like this anymore…

"I know, kid. I know. Just hang on, okay?" The voice chokes. "Help is on the way."

Soft strokes through my hair. That's nice.

There's pressure on my cheek, too. The calming caress of a thumb?

I inwardly roll my eyes. No way. Don't be ridiculous.

"It's okay. Everything's going to be fine…" That sounds… oddly distorted. "I'll take care of you, alright? I won't let anything happen to you ever again. God-" Harvey gulps down another shaky breath, "_Why didn't you tell me?"_

_I wanted to._

There's this awful gagging noise, a tiny whimper.

_I couldn't._

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I won't deny it was an impulse decision, born out of anger and self-loathing.

It was stupid. _I_ was stupid.

It's just that - Well, sometimes… I have to wonder.

It's no secret that I have little confidence and could soak up praise all day long if given the chance. For a so-called genius, I don't have much faith in my abilities. My Grammy was the only one who ever said I was good enough, who urged me to _be_ something, to _do_ something other than drift around as some washed-up loser, and for a while there, yeah, I even started to believe her.

But then she died.

And all of that belief died with her.

I began to question what my being here really offers.

I think about that a lot.

At the moment, it sure as hell doesn't seem like much.

I'm provided with food, clothes, shelter, warmth, and for what? So that I can lie around, moping, forgetting to even shower? To need someone to give me a pep-talk just to leave Harvey's condo?

It's pathetic.

I'm doing nothing to prove my worth. In fact, I'm starting to think I'm actually making other people's lives _worse_.

Ironic, right?

Whether it's putting up with my temperamental mood swings or general inability to function like a normal human being, I know I'm not exactly a fun person to be around. I'm difficult and draining and no matter what Harvey says, it's easy to see how little I give and how much I've taken. Which is… sad. Because I don't want this. I don't want to be this… this _burden_.

I hate that Harvey schedules all of his meetings as early on in the day as possible, so that he's not plagued by nightmarish scenarios of what I might be planning on doing. It kills me, a little, to know that he _worries_ about me when I'm alone.

I hate that Donna's smile isn't quite as cheery when she cautiously delivers her latest quip, because I'm _sensitive_, didn't you hear? And she doesn't want me to take it too seriously.

Certainly, I hate this feeling of owing anyone for tolerating my presence. It's harmful and Lord knows, unhealthy, but I don't wish for an imagined debt to be my sole reason for getting out of bed in the morning. All that ever accomplishes is another truckload of guilt being added to my pile.

That alone will never be enough to keep me going.

The truth is, I'm not worth all of this effort, and every day I actually manage to stumble out of bed, I know that in some way, I better Goddamn earn it.

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_* flashback *_

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"Why?"

"Harvey, can we not-"

_"Why?"_ The question is soft but insistent. I sigh.

"I wanted to die," I reply bluntly in a listless tone, and am not the least bit surprised when he recoils.

I tilt my head curiously. "Does that really bother you?"

He splutters (well, the Harvey Specter equivalent) as if he can't believe what he's hearing, eyes large and horror-stricken. It's a good look on him.

"You're damn right it _bothers me_, Mike. You don't even-" Abruptly cutting off, he shakes his head in order to clear it. I note with actual shock this time, that the greatest closer in the New York city is lost for words. A first, then, for the eloquent, ever-charming lawyer.

Then, slowly - in realisation - his eyes widen even further and he gives a muted, "You don't even regret it... do you?"

Oh, boy. He clearly does not want to know that answer.

But I feel I owe it to him anyway.

"No."

His scowl deepens. "How-what-_Why_?"

"I don't know, Harvey. I just do." I wouldn't say my voice is _cold_, exactly, but undoubtedly chilled. Matter-of-fact.

"You must have some idea."

This is more difficult that I pictured it would be when I first awakened to find my boss camped out on the hospital chair beside me, suit crinkled and drawn features weary.

"Gram's gone. My Mum and Dad died years ago. Trevor's an ass." I shrug. "I'm all alone."

Harvey pales, looking aghast.

"_Alone_, kid? That's what you call it?" he exclaims in disbelief, straightening and looking me dead in the eye. "What about Donna, huh? Who, by the way, spent the entire night inconsolably sobbing. Or that Jenny girl. You still care about her, don't you? I'm positive she feels the same. Or-Or what about Rachel? Hell, even Louis." He hesitates, his eyes jumping around the empty room laden with meaningless _get-well-soon _cards, baby-blue balloons and two vases of flowers (sweet pea, his Gram's favourite), before his burning gaze once again fixes on me. "What about…" He steels himself. "What about me?"

Any other time, I would have grinned impishly and cracked another 'He-Who-Never-Cares' joke. But the atmosphere is too sober for masking problems with inanity, and my heart's already been sliced open, too raw to even try.

I can't face him.

"I'm sorry."

It's not the entire truth and Harvey is far from fooled.

"No, you're not."

I bow my head in acknowledgment, a sad smile gracing my lips.

"I want to be."

It must be the lightening in here because Harvey's eyes could not be glistening. "I know you do."

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It's funny. I only have one scar (besides the obvious two, etched deep onto my wrists, unlikely to ever fade) and in my mind, I'm fairly certain that means I'm not a cutter. Though, yeah. It was self-inflicted.

I look at it sometimes, out of bizarre, morbid fascination. Strange, because part of me is disgusted by such a ghastly display of weakness, and, naturally, I fear other's reactions and yes, okay, you got me - their condemnation.

Beneath that, however, is something equally normal. If by normal, I mean to me. Anyone else? I can't say for certain.

Thing is, I _like _seeing it, and I like the idea that _I did it_. The pain and the blood is inconsequential. Temporary. And while, at the time, I wasn't thinking about the ramifications for the future, (such as just how much of a burden it would become to ensure the mark stays hidden,) my need was just that.

The blemished appearance - red and inflamed, slowly turning silvery, ever so slightly raised. The deformity. That deep-seated _wrongness_.

I wanted that.

I didn't consider the reality of living with it. I didn't imagine just how ashamed I would feel when some stranger caught a glimpse of it in the street, or how exposed I'd be in the firm on the off chance that I distractedly rolled up my sleeves out of boredom while completing paperwork - a force of habit I have since had to eliminate. Nor could I possibly foresee the guilt that would consume me at the most inopportune moments. I really had no idea just how stressful this could be.

Yet I wouldn't take it back.

I'm _proud _of my scar in the same way I'm sometimes proud of my ability to deceive so easily.

It's wrong and it's sick and I sometimes speculate that maybe this is what it means to be crazy.

To hurt yourself and dismiss the pain because somehow you enjoy the fact that even as it heals, it never truly will. Skin may repair itself, sure, but it will never look as flawless, will never be the same as before you took a knife to it.

I cut myself just to bleed. To marvel at the sight of blood, humanized me.

It occurred to me that no matter who you are or what sort of life you lead, if you dig a knife into your flesh, you'll bleed.

I wanted to hurt until I knew how to feel.

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_* flashback *_

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At work, I've always maintained the idea that if I fake it well enough, I can almost look alive.

So it's at five this evening that I'm taken aback by the hand on my shoulder, a lean body blocking my exit as Harvey leans in close to my gaunt face and asks in what could _almost_ pass for unease, "Hey, hold up a sec, kiddo. You okay?"

I give him the blankest stare I can possibly summon. "'Course," I shrug, the perfect picture of innocent confusion, "Why wouldn't I be?"

Harvey's brow furrows inscrutably, his expression just as impassive as mine, and all of a sudden, I am inexplicably gripped by fear.

_Oh, God,_ I panic. What if he _sees_?

The older man prides himself in his ability to read people, for crying out loud!

Futilely, I hold out the hope that I'm the exception, somehow, though that's never once stopped him before.

"I don't know…" That, is definitely suspicion. "Have you been here all night?"

Tell the truth or lie? Hm. Tough decision.

I don't waver.

"Yes."

His eyes narrow. "Doing what, exactly?"

"Eh, some stuff for Louis. Nothing too exciting. You know what he's like." I hold still, scarcely restraining myself from squirming under his hard glare.

"Really?" he chuckles, but it's not amused. "Is that what you're going with?"

"Can't really go with anything else," I look around, as if in puzzlement. "It's the truth."

_Lies, _something peculiarly witch-like cackles in my head, and that's how I verify I am definitely sleep-deprived. _It's all lies. _

You have to give me some credit, though. I pick a story and I stick to it - even under immense pressure.

Harvey arches a brow. "If you're sure…" He leaves the sentence hanging in the hope that I'll cave.

I don't.

"I'm fine, Harvey," I grind out, jaw working under my skin. "Honestly."

"Well, excuse me if I don't exactly trust your definition of 'honestly.'"

"Just let it go, alright?" Adjusting the strap on my messenger bag, I repeat, "I'm good."

After all, it's not a lie if you believe it.

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A knock sounds on my bedroom door just as I'm shrugging into a sweatshirt.

"Come in," I call as a nervousness flutters in my stomach. Soon, a dark silhouette appears in the entryway.

"You sure?" he asks, propped casually against the doorframe, and I frown.

Uncertainty marring my tone, I say, "Uh…Yeah?"

Harvey laughs. "Just checking. Now that I have your express permission, I have no intention of leaving, and you're not allowed to kick me out."

"Is that right?"

"Sure is, bud. Deal with it."

I roll my eyes, but can't quite help my small smile. "Okay, so now that you have my attention in what is likely a hostage situation, what did you want to talk to me about?"

"I think you know, kiddo," Harvey answers grimly, taking a seat on the edge of the bed and patting the space beside him. Well, shoot.

Just because I had foreseen this coming, doesn't mean I'm glad that the moment's arrived.

Laying down instead of sitting, I snatch a cushion from the top end and toss it dramatically over my face, pressing down lightly. "You're not going to yell at me, are you?" I fret, voice muffled.

Chuckling in what presume is a negative, the other man attempts to remove the barrier but I grip it tighter, with a long, drawn-out, "Nooo. Just this once, could you let me keep it?"

Heaving a sigh, Harvey counters good-naturedly, "Just this once, _I_ would like to see your face when I'm speaking to you."

"Reprimanding me, more like it," I correct grumpily.

"_Talking_," he insists. "Now, would you kindly put that down?"

"Please, Harvey?"

I just want my cushion.

"Why are you being so pushy about this?" There's a pause, and I can _hear_ him worrying. "Is your head hurting again?"

"No," I remark quickly. _Too_ quickly.

"Mike," Harvey warns and I moan, before surrendering, "Yes. It is. But only a little bit."

"Did you take anything for it?"

I groan, "I thought you wanted to _talk_ to me?"

"I _am_ talking to you. Stop deflecting."

"I'm not! It's not that big a deal-" The bed shifts. "Where are you going?"

"To get you some Tylenol," he replies as if that much should be obvious, (the _duh_ here heavily implied, if Harvey weren't so sophisticated and would ever utter such a thing) and then he leaves, returning a few moments later with two pills and a cool glass of water.

"Here," he drops them onto my open palm, "Swallow."

I don't move.

"Yeah, you're going to have to sit _up_ to do that."

"Ugh. _Fiiine_."

After I've been a good little boy and done as I've been told, a heavy silence falls over us and I almost wish I could go back to five minutes ago and prolong our flippant banter.

I don't even get to keep the cushion.

"Mike," Harvey begins and I hold my breath, stomach churning, as he admits, "I.. _might_ have been a little too hard on you earlier. I realise that now." He exhales heavily, and I'm struck by the fact that it's been hard on him, too. "I was just… angry, I suppose. And," here comes the difficult part, "Worried."

"I'm going to try harder," I murmur, because I will. I know I will.

"No, Mike. I was wrong to say what I did. I think you're trying hard enough." Scrubbing a hand over his face, he adds, "Too hard, sometimes, maybe."

"Whaddya mean?" Now I'm genuinely confused.

"Kid," Harvey locks his gaze with mine to say, "I saw the paperwork scattered everywhere."

I cringe.

"I told you not to concern yourself with any of that. You'll get back to it in your own time-"

"I can do it now-"

"You can't, though, kiddo. That's the problem." The older man shakes his head, forehead crinkling. "See, this is what I've been saying. You push yourself too hard and then are disappointed when you don't get the expected results."

"I am telling you, Harvey. I need to-"

"Listen to me, Mike," he interrupts, voice and face extremely serious - more serious than I ever remember seeing him. "What you _need_," he stresses the word, "Is to accept the fact that you're not functioning at 100% right now. That does not make you a failure. Even if you are only working at 20%, that's okay. Because you're _still here _and that's the _only_ thing that counts."

"I'm not invalid."

"I know you're not," he soothes instantly, running a hand through my hair in a gesture that has become second-nature. "I get it. I really do. You feel out of touch - unreliable. Your mind isn't working at the same speed you're used to, to put it mildly, but that's _normal_. It's called cognitive impairment, Mike, and that's just one of the side-effects that come with depression - it's not _you_. You'll be fine. Just give it time."

"But I'm not fine," I burst out, suddenly irritated. My chest heaves. "I'm useless now!"

"No," Harvey quickly intervenes, if a little panicky. "No, you're not useless! Not at all!" Evidently failing to convince me judging by my disbelieving stare, he persists, "The issue here, junior, is that you keep comparing yourself to the person you were before, fixating on all of your limitations, and that's not benefiting anyone, least of all you. That person is gone, in the past. You need to concentrate on getting through today. And then tomorrow. Day by day, if you have to. And I'll be with you. Every step of the way." His expression soon turns beseeching, and it's so unexpected that I start, "Just, please, _please_, promise me that you'll stop beating yourself up over things you have no control over."

This conversation cuts deeper than I would have liked, and I whisper, not trusting my voice, "But-but what if this _is_ my 100%?" I confide, nipping my lip carefully, "What if 20% is all I'm ever going to be?"

"Mike, even if that were true," Seeing my face fall, he swiftly assures, "Which it isn't! But if it _was_, then you still wouldn't have anything to worry about. Your brain is remarkable, kiddo, and even your 20% is better than most other people at full capacity." Harvey reaches up to tousle my hair, and I grin, surprising even myself. "I said it before and I'll say it again, kid. You will absolutely fine. You are the last person who needs to worry this." Harvey smirks, wrapping an arm around me in a loose half-hug. "You're making great progress, Mike. I'm proud of you."

For the first time in a long time, my cheeks actually hurt from smiling.

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_* Flashback *_

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I'm hiding from the mirror, the sharpened eyes of a liar, listening to the faint slaps of blood as they dot the pristine floor.

My head tips towards darkness and I pinch my eyes shut.

In this fleeting sanctuary where wounds bleed freely and silence cuts.

Here, I clench and flex stiff fingers - sore now, with the blade no longer poking out, sparkling and commanding from between them.

I sit and I wait.

I'm waiting to care. As if I'm actually foolish enough to believe that some miracle is going to pop out of nowhere and I'll inexplicably pull through, gasping but largely intact.

Problem is, lot's of important things have come and gone. It's all been the same to me.

I think what hurts the most is the relief. Its presence crowds what little resistance I have; an unforgiving mist sinking into broken glass.

Frustration weaves through my numbing limbs, an overwhelming swell of pressure festers inside my chest, and I cry, softly, in the only place it's safe.

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_* Fin *_

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_Thank-you for reading._

_Please, please review._

_I'm sorry for ending on a sadder note, but...I had to. The ending, strangely, felt like a preface for me and I just.. I liked the idea of it. I'm hoping this is the right blend of sweetness and angst. Oh, well, fingers crossed.._


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